


sometimes words don't have to (catharsis, or simply being frustrated and feeling it)

by amorremanet



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (discussed as a future thing), (more or less anyway), Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angst, Begging, Brother Feels, Clinging, Communication Failure, Complicated Relationships, Deal with a Devil, Declarations Of Love, Desperation, Difficult Decisions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Inept, Emotionally Repressed, Everyone Has Issues, Everyone Is Alive, Everything Hurts, Forced Prostitution, Hostage Exchanges, Hostage Situations, Hurt Camden Lahey, Hurt Derek Hale, Hurt Everybody, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lack of Communication, Love Confessions, M/M, Near Future, Oblivious Camden Lahey, Past Abuse, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Personal Mementos, Pining Derek Hale, Protective Camden, Protective Derek, Protectiveness, Realization, Rebellion, Revolutionaries In Love, Self-Sacrifice, Sharing Clothes, Snark, Star Trek References, Suicidal Thoughts, Supernatural Discrimination, Survival, The Author Regrets Everything, Vaguely Codependent Laheys, Vulnerability, Werewolf Camden Lahey, Werewolf Discrimination, Werewolves, Worry, appearances from various others, different styles of protectiveness, tyranny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-19 06:32:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2378351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Besides, Derek, can you please tell me? Which is the bigger number here: eight or one.”</i> / <i>“Well, what if that <b>one</b> could make all the difference to us?”</i> / <i>Vaguely, Cam wonders if Derek means to say, “to me” — that’s sure as Hell what it sounds like — but that’s ridiculous…</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	sometimes words don't have to (catharsis, or simply being frustrated and feeling it)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unrequitedloveisabitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrequitedloveisabitch/gifts).



> So, I'd say that this wasn't the fic I planned on writing, but considering that my original plan was to write what was essentially a rom-com even after I completely lost control of it, this would be a hardcore understatement.
> 
> Even this finished fic bears very little resemblance to the idea that I had in mind when I started with it. I really just hope that my poor recipient likes it at least in some part, because I loved working with their prompts, and getting handed a free excuse to write Camden/Derek didn't hurt either. ♥
> 
> I'm also sorry that, despite my recipient's preference for smut with a build-up, the smut here is of the, "foreplay and a fade to black" variety. I'd originally planned to write the sex scene itself, but at the end of my extension, I wound up short on time and long on frustration with a scene that just wasn't working. :\

Sitting in the Alphas’ Council meeting, for what might be the first time in his life, Camden doesn’t find it difficult to keep his fucking mouth shut.

Which shouldn’t make any sense, for all it happens. Cam could run his mouth at Victoria Argent without breaking a sweat or feeling his heart race. He _has_ run his mouth at her lovely, godawful, shotgun-happy sister-in-law when they’ve had the misfortune of crossing paths. Before the two of them, he used to let loose at Dad, when he’d go in too hard at Isaac and needed someone to call him out. Even though the words meant almost nothing, Cam had them in abundance, with enough fire-spitting vitriol to go around.

But now, when he’s sitting down, head-bowed, at the Council’s table like they don’t let just anybody do, lest democracy give way to total chaos? Now, when he’s got a voice and the chance to use it in a forum where more Alphas than Scott and Laura have to listen to him when he speaks? Now, when any and all of his thoughts on something matter in practice as well as on paper, and when he’s been promised that the Council will consider his opinions and his comfort, that he could even put a stop to any of their ideas, all he has to do is say the word?

Now, when running his mouth could actually make a difference, Cam can’t think of anything to say.

Even if he could, he might not be able to spit it out for the life of him. As soon as Laura tosses the little black Moleskine journal out into the center of the table, Cam’s whole mouth goes so dry that his tongue sticks to the roof like he hasn’t eaten or like he slept with his mouth open. Adding insult to injury, when it’s not sticking to something else, his tongue’s so thick that it could’ve gotten a whole syringe of Novocaine stabbed into it and when the book gunshot smacks into the table, suddenly, Cam’s extra-aware of just how much he hates his mouth right now. When everyone on the Council turns their eyes on him, Cam’s extra-aware of the plaque making sticky ridges on his teeth.

He tries to lick them off, just in case someone else hates them as much as he does, and he gets approximately nowhere. Toothpaste is something of a luxury when being a werewolf means that your very existence is illegal, outside certain special circumstances. It’ll still be two days until the next supply run and it’s been three since Cam used the last of his and Isaac’s Colgate. Cam remembers because that was the day he got the journal, filled up with Gerard Argent’s florid handwriting, his instructions, and his offer: he’ll give eight hostages back to the Packs in exchange for just one of their number, just one little beta.

He’ll give eight captives back, all in exchange for Cam.

Deucalion huffs and says that he can smell the Argents’ _distinctive_ stench practically emanating from the journal’s pages, even with the cover closed, and Cam would swear his lips get dry enough that speaking would make them crack and bleed. As he’s trying to lick them out, Noshiko’s the first one who asks to see the book. Once it’s in her hands, she, her husband, and Satomi all huddle around it. Bless her, Satomi’s Emissary tries to read it over her Alpha’s shoulder, but it’s working about as well any attempts at keeping Stiles in line — at least, any attempts made by anyone _but_ Scott.

Right now’s no different, Stiles-wise. They have the whole Council called together, everyone sober and somber and still as the journal gets passed around and Laura goes over the situation. As she brings out the grisly photos that came with the journal, you could hear the worms writhing through the earth underneath this cabin. As she struggles to keep her voice steady, informing everyone else of the deal that Gerard’s offering and what he expects to get from them in return, nobody moves at all except to breathe. The gravity of the situation keeps everyone subdued, and they don’t dare comment without all of the available intel.

…and then there’s Stiles. Predictably excitable _Stiles_ , rocking expectantly in his seat, twisting his fingers up in knots with each other, and sometimes bouncing like a little kid who has to piss and can’t hold it anymore. Every so often, he casts unconcealed glances over at Scott and whines when Scott shakes his head, as though he’s affording Scott a courtesy nobody else ever gets and waiting for Scott’s permission to do something. Or _say_ something, more likely. While everyone else is quiet, Stiles keeps letting noises slip out of his mouth, half-baked objections that he only cuts off, again, because of Scott and the threat of disappointing him. Anyway, words are what Stiles chooses to fall back on, and that mischievous sparkle in his eyes and the way his lips keep twitching can only mean he’s doing the best he can to keep from blurting _something_ out.

Cam can appreciate that eagerness. Really, he can. In another reality — one in which the Emissary-in-Training didn’t have his well-established penchant for smacking abuse survivors in the face with phrases like _just get over it_ and _milking it_ — Cam could have called him “friend.” All because neither of them likes staying quiet when they could shoot off at the mouth like Annie Fucking Oakley instead.

Despite that penchant, though, Cam would consider calling Stiles, “friend” right now this very second, if he’d just loan Cam some of that impatience or give him some of those words. Because by the time Laura starts taking questions from the group, he still doesn’t have any and he doesn’t see that changing. He’d be fine with that, except for how in Stiles’s calmer moments, Scott keeps leaning around Julia, or behind her, so he can furrow his brow or frown at Cam. What he wants to say spells itself out on Scott’s face, and it’s the same, every single time: _you know this whole meeting’s about the stuff that’s happening to **you** , right? don’t you have **anything** to say about that? because you’re allowed to say things. it's even **better** if you do._

That just gets worse once the debate _actually_ starts up. Ennis weighs in first, as blunt and to the point as an anvil to the head, and says there’s really no fucking question about how to handle this. “There shouldn’t be, anyway. Gerard’s got eight of our wolves in the lockdown. God only knows what he and Kate are doing to them. He only wants the Major in exchange, so I say we get this done with, send Gerard our agreement without a fuss, and make the damn hostage exchange already. Eight versus one — math’s pretty easy, if you ask me.”

“The math may be easy,” Noshiko says, shooting Ennis one pointedly arched eyebrow, “but the situation — the _whole_ situation — is decidedly _not_.”

It’s seriously a privilege to watch her work like this. She’s smooth and cool, the way she always is, and when she speaks, the whole room fixates on her. She makes it look like she’s doing nothing, like they just want to hang on every word because everything about Noshiko Yukimura effortlessly commands attention. And it’s magical, it is, because she’s the only person afforded an Alpha’s status in the larger pack without actually being an Alpha. Makes sense enough, though: she may not be a werewolf, but a nine-hundred and twelve-year-old kitsune isn’t anyone to scoff at.

“Noshiko-san’s right,” Deaton chimes in. “This isn’t a hostage exchange anymore, not by Gerard’s rules for it and not with his demands. In asking us to hand Camden over to him like he has, he’s _turned_ this into selling out one of our own—”

“In exchange for the _hostages_.” Ennis might be trying not to growl, Cam can’t really tell, but if he is, then he’s doing a shit job of it. “What part of that _doesn’t_ sound like a simple hostage exchange to anybody?”

As they’re all going on, Scott won’t stop looking in Cam’s direction. Always with the same knitted brow, the same befuddlement that Cam hasn’t started yelling at anyone yet. Scott probably has the logic of how things should be going all figured out in his head: Gerard wants them to sell Cam out in exchange for the hostages. This is a Bad Thing and bad for Cam’s continued wellness, possibly his existence, and because it's a Bad Thing, Cam should object to it. Cam has a chance to voice said objections now, and there’s no way that he doesn’t have any. Because _Scott_ has objections to the idea of handing Cam over. Scott _always_ objects to the idea of not being able to save everyone, or the related idea of giving in to Gerard without having a plan to turn it around on him.

Never mind the benefits of making the trade. Never mind that, in handing over Cam, they’d be getting back Isaac, Liam, Erica, Boyd, Malia, Mason, that Brett kid in Satomi’s pack, and one of the beta twins from Ennis’s. Scott has objections to the idea of sacrificing Cam because he hates the idea of ever, ever sacrificing anyone for anybody — unless he’s the sacrifice himself. Which means that Cam should have objections to this, too, because Scott wants that for him. Because Scott thinks that objecting is the only reasonable thing to do and that, clearly, Cam’s dead silence only indicates that he doesn’t feel like he’s free to speak, the odd beta out in a room full of Alphas, their Emissaries, and a nine-hundred and twelve-year-old kitsune. So, obviously, he needs Scott to keep _looking at him like that_ , face drawn into concern like Cam’s someone who Scott needs to _pity_.

If this is supposed to make Cam want to talk, then Scott’s working off a fucking truly shitty plan. All he accomplishes is making Cam feel like he needs to go throw up. Guilt sinks in. Maybe Scott’s right about this in ways he didn’t mean to be, and maybe Cam’s being too cavalier and too resigned about this, and maybe he should think again about what’s fallen in his lap. Maybe he should have an opinion and take advantage of the opportunity to voice it. If they hand him over to Gerard, the way they _should_ , then he’ll never get another chance to do that with the Alphas’ Council. He probably won’t make it back here until the Argents are overthrown, and by then, if it happens, they won’t _need_ a Council anymore. But if they decide to do the stupid thing and keep Cam here, then he’ll _still_ never get another chance unless another incident like this comes up.

None of which actually helps Cam find the words, let alone speak up. The nagging, scratching, clawing feeling that he should probably say _something_ creeps up the back of Cam’s neck and makes his throat close in on itself. Leaves him dropping his eyes, picking at the hole in his dirty jeans, and wondering if he could possibly have a fatal allergic reaction to this conversation. Or maybe to the silence that’s sinking in as everyone joins Scott in staring at Cam. Either/or. They’re equally awful, just for different reasons.

“Not that I’m all for _actually_ selling anybody out, because I’m not, okay? Like, you all _know_ that I’m not up for _actually_ selling people out… but I mean? The big guy’s kinda got a point, too?” And in comes Stiles, almost managing to save the day, exploding into things like it’s been killing him to keep quiet for so long. It might actually be a personal best for him. Cam should have Braeden try to find the kid a cake when she and Lydia and Melissa next go out for supplies.

A cute little _congratulations on resisting your impulse to fully self-actualize in your potential douchebaggery_ cake, or something. Made of chocolate with little cheap fondant flowers if she could find one like that. Sure, it sounds like an awful plan but you never know. Maybe incentivizing decency could work out okay with Stiles.

“It’s not like we’re _really_ selling Major Lay-Me out, is it? I mean, what… We get kind of a _lot_ of people back, if we hand him over? We get Malia, Boyd and Erica, Thing Two, the kids, _Isaac_? We get them all out of Kate’s clutches and we give them _him_ …” Briefly, Stiles trails off and stops waving his hands around. He looks at Cam like he’s waiting for some other shoe to drop, like Cam should be threatening to kill him for even suggesting this, the way he does when Stiles runs his mouth at Isaac, _especially_ about their Dad.

…except that Cam says nothing. Stiles stares at him expectantly, but Cam stays quiet. All he does is shrug, and look down at his fingernails.

Which leaves Stiles free to press on with, “I mean, maybe it’s just _me_ here? But this whole, ‘trade in Camden and get back eight pack-mates and call it good’ plan? Sounds like a pretty solid idea. Like, I think we should at _least_ consider it, right? If they have Camden, they’ll only have one wolf to torture. One wolf instead of, y’know, _eight_? And he’s a wolf who’s like… all brave, and _strong_ , and _determined_ … He could totally hold his own against the worst of them, _and_ he’s already been trained up in resisting torture by the best of the best, probably, so I don’t really—”

“We _are_ considering it. That’s the entire reason for having this meeting,” Laura deadpans. “And I don’t think that torture resistance is standard Army training.”

“You’ve never _been_ in the Army, Little Princess,” Ennis snaps. “What they put you through in basic, and then in the officers’ training programs? Everything they do in the name of teaching you to _resist extreme stress_? They might as _well_ be training you in torture resistance.”

“Except that’s not what Gerard _wants_ with Cam, is it?” Scott finally speaks up, because maybe he’s finally gotten it through his head that Cam isn’t going to do it himself. “He has some kind of plan, he _has_ to have some kind of plan, and that’s why he's changing things up on us, isn’t it? Because we’re not talking about the typical torture that he and Kate get up to, are we? Gerard wants to take Cam to the Bastille to keep him as some kind of a…” He takes a deep breath, and here comes the part where Scott’s mother raised him a little too well, so there are some words that he just can’t say. “He wants to show Cam off to people and make a freak show out of him and pass him around like some kind of freaking… _party favor_.”

“Actually, Gerard wants to make Camden into one of his official _prostitutes_.” Deucalion must be reading Cam’s mind or something. It’s the only way he could get so, so close to saying exactly what Cam’s thinking, with the words in the right order and everything. “Don’t mince words, Scott. It’s beneath you. Call him a ‘whore,’ call him a ‘rent boy,’ call him the more general ‘sex worker.’ Be gentle and poetic, and call him a ‘courtesan’ or an ‘escort,’ if you prefer — but don’t shy away from using words that are _accurate_ to Camden’s potential future situation just because it isn’t a particularly _pleasant_ one. You’re better than that.”

“How about the more general, ‘ _sex **slave**_ ,’ then? Is that _not mincing words_ enough for you?” Almost in unison, everyone turns to Scott. Cam stays put. Or tries to. He tells himself to just stay where he is, but then Scott just keeps _going_ , “Because that’s what he’s _really_ gonna be if we hand him over to Gerard, okay? That’s what we’re talking about making him right now. _That’s_ what we’re talking about subjecting him to and we’re talking about doing it on _Gerard’s_ rules instead of on our own. We’re talking about letting him play us, and _selling Cam out_ , and nobody’s saying freaking _anything_ about how _we_ could try to fight back. We’re just _lining up_ to take it from _Gerard's_ rules.”

Scott breaks off for a moment, takes a deep breath and sighs in a way usually reserved for the nights when Stiles is more difficult to keep in line, when he starts picking fights with everyone in the mess hall or around the fire pits or anywhere else where he can find people. For all Cam knows better, and for all he’s trying to remain more or less unremarkable (all the better to avoid getting called upon), he can’t help leaning around Julia to get a better look at his True Alpha. Can’t help ogling the way that Scott’s clenching his jaw, digging one hand’s nails into its palm, coming dangerously close to full on _snarling_. It’s not exactly _appropriate_ of Cam to stare like this, but much like watching Noshiko work, hearing Scott get _this_ incensed is a rare privilege, these days. To hear him doing it at _Deucalion_ is rarer still, after getting taken on as the Peacemaker’s apprentice in all things Alpha.

Getting a reminder that Scott can still get angry? Almost makes Cam smile. At least until reality has to remind him that it exists:

“We don’t have the space to _make_ any rules of our own.” Kali’s been unusually silent until now. Biding her time, maybe. Or maybe losing their wolves has made her more appreciative of collaborating than she’s been, even when none of those lost were hers. “Our side, Scott? Is the currently losing side. Gerard’s got us pinned down by the neck and since we’re _considering_ things instead of trying to rip him and his lieutenants apart, we need to weigh all of the options. All of the possibilities. Which also means considering desperate measures, and being ready to undertake them, where it’s necessary. Like right now, for instance.”

“Yeah, Scotty, just… Calm down, okay? Take a deep breath or ten for me?” Ah, _finally_ , the situation’s gotten serious. Stiles is the one advocating calmness. That’s how you can tell that things are serious. And now Cam can die contented with the knowledge that, for once, a situation involving him was _crucial_ and _life or death important_ that it made Stiles say, “Scotty, please, just… They’re not gonna _kill_ him. Like Duke says, it’ll be kinda _unpleasant_ but at least he’ll be _alive_. So that means there’s hope left, right? We _always_ find a way to make things work out, don’t we—”

“When I think about finding a way to make things work out? I don’t exactly think about _selling one of our own out to **Gerard**_ , Stiles.”

Everyone goes graveyard silent at just how _freezing cold_ Scott’s voice is now, and it almost seems like the room itself does the same. The temperature has to drop at least ten degrees. And while they all wait for Scott’s next move, Cam’s mind stumbles into the thought that _this_ , this moment right here right now, could be some kind of decisive tipping point. Not just in this unique discussion, but maybe in the entire course of everything.

The Argent regime, the rebellion against it, the pro-supernatural revolution that’s been building ever since they all got dragged into the open a couple years ago, all the homes and lives destroyed so far, all the loss and pain and the lives they’re trying to help or at least save, all the people who’ve died, all the people who have yet to die, everyone who’s going to be claimed by this war, however long it keeps on raging…

This could be one of the moments that the histories turn into a spectacle because everything that follows, they’ll trace back to it. Everything that follows, no matter how significant, they’ll trace back to what Scott says next, what he does next, and how his decisions as an Alpha impact literally everything on so large a scale. Cam swallows thickly and he’s not sure if his heart’s still beating right. Maybe it isn’t, but everything feels so _huge_ now and this moment’s _not_ supposed to be significant.

That’s just facts, as far as Cam’s concerned. Throwing him over to Gerard or not isn’t supposed to _mean anything_ significant. Like Ennis says, it’s just a hostage exchange, and nothing more. Why _would_ it be anything more? Cam’s not an Alpha, or an Emissary. He’s not a turncoat hunter who joined the revolution. He’s not a banshee or a nine-hundred and twelve-year-old nine-tailed kitsune. Cam’s just another beta. Just another soldier. But if this century’s only known True Alpha is _really_ as important as they say he is, this moment could be more than Cam originally bargained for. Maybe it really _could_ change the course of everything.

And to think: when Cam came in here, he just to get his baby brother out of whatever Hell Gerard’s gone and locked him up in. Even staring down the potential historical significance, that’s all he really cares about. Isaac is what really matters. History’s just the thing currently making Cam sick to his stomach.

“So _that’s_ what we’re really talking about. And no one in here is _helping_ right now, with the way we’re all talking about it.” Maybe Scott senses the looming pressure of historical significance, too. Maybe he doesn’t. Either way, this is the calmest and the stillest that Cam has ever heard Scott speak — and the last person he wants to be right now is the next one who gets Scott _really_ pissed off.

“We aren’t considering anything or making plans right now — how can we be? No one’s even talking openly about what we’re sending him into. Cam’s going to be a _sex slave_ , and it won’t just be unpleasant, it’ll be even _worse_ than that. Because we’re not talking about torture anymore. Not the kind we’re used to, anyway. We’re talking about Gerard working at his best. We’re talking about how he has a plan here like he always does. And if that plan _starts_ at sex slavery and only gets _worse_ from there, which it will because it’s _Gerard_ and it always gets worse with him? Then I’m _not okay_ with just sending Cam into that _alone_.”

Scott pauses like he might be done. But then another thought occurs and he tacks on, “I’m not okay with sending him into that _period_ , but _especially_ not alone. The way that you’re _all_ assuming he’ll go in. And I’m pretty sure that mincing words or not doesn’t _actually_ make a difference, at this point. Y’know, since we’re being _accurate_ about it and everything.”

 _Well, so it goes indeed_ , Cam thinks, and keeps his breathy, gallows little laugh to himself. Scott might let Derek kill Cam for finding any of this funny.

Just like he keeps everything to himself. For the rest of the debate, while everyone else disputes his character or his capabilities, while they come up with potential uses of having a man inside the Bastille (even one who’s being forced into prostitution at the time), while they hash out ideas for plans that impact him directly, Cam buries every thought, every emotion. He focuses on minutiae — the threads of his jeans, the grease in his hair, how much he wants a fucking wash after the next supply run — and he buries anything that he could say deeper than Dad tried to bury Mom, hiding all of her old things and refusing to ever, _ever_ bring her up. Not unless it was to remind Cam (or lie to him) that, if she hadn’t killed herself, she would’ve been so disappointed in him and in how he’d turned out. 

Sounding off right now wouldn’t help. Running his mouth would likely only keep Cam here while Isaac and the others stayed stuck in the lockdown. So, Cam entombs all the potential catalysts down where he keeps Dad’s old favorite kick in the teeth: _Your mother didn’t live and die for you just so you could **disgrace** her memory by failing your little brother, Camden. She didn’t love you and Isaac more than anything so you could let him down, or set such a god **awful** example for him. What do you even think she’d say if she could see you now. Because you know what I think, don’t you? To see you **now**? I think your mother would just **sob**._

Somehow, the conversation picks up enough that no one really notices Cam’s silence anymore. Or so he thinks, anyway. All of the rebellion’s leaders and advisors keep talking. They keep arguing about the decisions to be made for Cam, about his own life. Sometimes, they even look at him. But outside of Deaton, Scott, and Laura, these glances mostly happen for the sake of scrutinizing him, so Cam keeps saying nothing. Instead of talking, he picks the cakes of dirt out from under his fingernails and tries to lick any residue off of his teeth. He keeps his mouth shut and eyes trained on the table if not his hands and his breathing slow. Even. Measured. _Breathe in through the nose… hold for one, two, three, four… exhale through the mouth. Breathe in through the nose…_

Not that this actually does anything to calm him down. Not that anything _could_ manage that right now. Not until he knows that Isaac’s safe again.

But at least Cam’s gotten himself more or less composed by the time the meeting’s over. At least he’s stilled his hands and stopped fidgeting for the most part, even though he still feels the need to go do _something_ physical before he _detonates_ (maybe sparring with someone or having rough sex, maybe swim in the lake about a mile off from the main campsite, maybe just running enough laps around the camp to make himself really feel them — which means making himself pass out or throw up. Cam doesn’t give a fuck, as long as he gets himself a fucking _outlet_ ).

At least he keeps his face neutral when Deucalion and Satomi pronounce the Council’s official decision on the matter — no sign of fear at what’s to come. No glorying in his vindication because regardless of how hard Deaton, Scott, and Laura fought the rest of them, they eventually chose right. And no crying. _Definitely_ no crying. Even a single tear could ruin everything. Even more than crying in front of Dad could’ve done.

At least, when things are breaking up and Scott pushes a folded up note into his hands, Cam’s collected and repressed enough that the message on it doesn’t make him faint: _Tell Derek what’s going on, and tell him about all of it, or else I’ll do it for you._

***   *   *   *   *   *   *   ***

Scott making threats like this happens so infrequently that Cam knows better than to _deliberately_ ignore it. He doesn’t get why he should make a _point_ of telling Derek specifically, not when everyone’s going to find out about it sooner or later, which makes the, “Cam’s oldest living friend (albeit a moderately estranged one)” part of the equation more or less pointless. Besides, friends or not, Cam’s not special enough to Derek to think he’d tell him anything about this happening, if their places were reversed, and seriously? It’s not like Derek could miss it, when Cam suddenly isn’t at the campsite anymore but Isaac and the others are.

But Scott threatened to tell Derek himself, and that’s not something Cam _intends_ to test Scott on. If he tells the story, it would mean that Derek hears an overblown, maudlin version of everything, probably one where Cam’s a noble, sad, poetic lionheart with a golden soul, like the sort of guy Euripides would write a play about. Or maybe one where he’s a beautiful, tragic slave of duty who just loves his brother and the revolution _so much_ that he’d willingly walk straight into something so much worse than a firing squad. Scott’s version of Cam would be so _selfless_ and _righteous_ and _good_ that he’d even refuse to voice any objections to the situation that he _obviously_ had just to be sure that his fate was sealed and he took Isaac’s place and set the others free.

Really, that should be the lowest point that this absurdity goes to, but it wouldn’t be nearly enough for either of the people involved in the narrating here. First, telling everything would get Scott all choked up. Most likely, he would cry. He would cry because it’s just _so beautiful_ and _so moving_ and Scott is _so overwhelmed_ by his emotions. Then Derek would cry too because he doesn’t like it when Scott is _sad_ , and then they would cry _together_ , and they’d probably hold each other while still crying their eyes out, and someone would need to bring them water after they dehydrated themselves. The whole mess would be so poignant that one or both of them would go off and write a fucking poem about it, and then they’d both cry some more as though that’s helping fucking _anybody_.

Worst of all? If Scott got his way about it, Cam would go down in their side’s account of history as some kind of _hero_.

Scott and Derek are so predictable on this count. The two of them eat that troped-out, melodramatic, _it is a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done_ unadulterated bullshit up with spoons, like they have to save the top-shelf ice cream before it melts. They enable each other in it constantly. It’s almost sickening, and the less of a chance they have to indulge themselves in their nonsense, the better. The last thing that anyone needs is a version of events that tries to make anybody think that Cam’s anything but what he is: no one special, just another soldier, a glorified grunt trying to do what he can, whose only notable characteristics are his low threshold for irritation, how much he loves his brother, and being blessed with his Mom’s good looks.

So, it’s really not that Cam goes against his True Alpha’s wishes on purpose. He absolutely _means_ to get around to telling Derek — but there’s never enough time, never enough of it for anything, and the lead-up to Cam’s departure goes by in a blink. Trying to keep track of the time is harder than trying to hold a hurricane. For Gerard, allowing Cam a week to get his affairs in order before he hands himself over to Victoria and Kate is outrageously generous. It doesn’t erase how much Cam has to handle and square away before letting them take him from a magically protected, borderline unknown survivors’ camp in the Pacific Northwest, out to the Bastille in Gévaudan (formerly Philadelphia). It doesn’t change how everything could fall apart based on one loose end from Cam’s past showing up in the wrong place — but still, getting any time at all? Generous, by Argent standards. A truly unbelievable amount of time.

Just not enough time to keep things from falling through the cracks and slipping Cam’s mind entirely. For six days and six nights, he even thinks that everything’s going according to plan. But then comes the seventh night, Cam’s last night before he ships out East, and then _Derek_ has to happen.

He storms in like a tornado, around sunset on Sunday night, while Cam’s stretched out on his cot in perfect solitude, counting the old stains and the fossilized pieces of chewing gum stuck to his cabin’s ceiling. Cabins here were designed to house as few as three and as many as six, but Cam’s had this four-bedder to himself for a few weeks now. After all, his bunkmates were Erica, Boyd, and Isaac, and since they’re gone and the Alphas haven’t taken in new asylum-seekers lately, Cam’s been left alone. Parrish stays over some nights. Parrish, or maybe Braeden. Sometimes both of them, if they think that Cam’s especially at risk for going off to do something stupid (and in fairness, he usually give them good reason to worry).

So, when someone comes stomping up the cabin’s front steps, Cam doesn’t rouse. He barely even blinks. The footsteps aren’t exactly right, but there’s always something to be said for stress. When he catches a scent, it’s not exactly right either — it’s not Braeden’s hint of cinnamon or the floral scent that lingers around Parrish, but something earthy with an undertone of rain — but even _that_ isn’t particularly noteworthy. Supply runs can only happen every so often, which makes hygiene supplies precious, so more than anything else, everyone at the camp mostly just reeks like sweat and dirt.

“Jesus, _both of you_ ,” Cam groans when the door slams open and flops shut. “Or Jesus whichever one of you’s here. Didn’t I already tell you that I’m fine? Do I have to go through a fucking psych eval before you let me—”

And that’s when the black Moleskine journal smacks into his face.

Cam jolts up and fumbles it into his lap. One look at the floor and the telltale black boots — _Derek’s_ telltale black boots — and Cam scuttles back until he’s pressed up against the wall, drawing his knees up near his chest. It takes a moment, but when he gets his head together enough to look up, Derek’s looming in the middle of the cabin. Even in the dim light sneaking in through the windows, Cam picks him out, hulking like he’s intimidating and breathing hard like Cam should find his anger scary and, as ever, wrapped up in his _stupid_ leather jacket. He’s looking for a reaction, probably, and that’ll only give him more reason to hang around, so all Cam gives him is a huff and an arched eyebrow.

Derek rocks on his feet and glances around the cabin. As he settles into a more solid grounding and tries to make like he’s really this confident, he crosses his arms over his chest. Cam would say that he’s hugging himself but it’s Derek, so if he understands that kind of gentleness like he used to, then it’s news to Cam. But Derek won’t take a hint and _leave_ already, so Cam tries being more obvious: he rolls his eyes and flings the journal at Derek, sideways like a Frisbee. He could catch it, if he’d bother to move, but he doesn’t. That might let Cam think he’s in control of _anything_ anymore, or maybe entertain the notion that he ever _was_ , so of course Derek can’t let that happen. Nobody can. God forbid Cam let himself pretend that his last night of (relative) freedom actually belongs to him.

At least, he could initiate the conversation properly, since Derek’s hanging around which means they’re going to have it out _somehow_ — but Derek beats Cam to that punch, too: “What the Hell is this.”

“A passport,” Cam deadpans, because that’s his right if Derek’s gonna storm in here and act as if he’s got any right to ask stupid questions. He could stop there. He probably _should_ stop. But it’s easier not to, so Cam slips into an affected, condescending chipper tone: “Only it’s not like, a _normal_ passport, see? It’s a passport to freaking Neverland. I mean, yeah, sure, second star to the left and straight on ’til morning and all that blah blah blah blah? But I guess they’ve kinda sold out lately and they switched to passports. So, anyway, I’m running away tomorrow and I’m gonna go take over and save the pirates and their cause from Captain Hook’s _unforgivable_ ineptitude, how’s it going for you.”

Derek tightens his hold on his own chest. “That’s not funny.”

“Who’s being funny? I’m talking about going to save the Lost Boys from Peter Pan’s latent sadism and murderous impulses. That little shit is a menace, Derek. Someone has to stop him. Why _not_ me? I’m just thinking of the children and their welfare.”

Derek scoffs. “Right. So that’s what you’re doing by handing yourself over to Gerard and letting him and Kate pimp you out. Thinking about the children’s welfare.”

“I thought you didn’t know what that book you threw at me was.” Cam smirks. “And anyway, it’s not your decision whether I go or not, it never _was_ , and even if it were? What’s the point of arguing when the decision’s already been made? It’s been lined up for a week already.”

“Maybe the point in arguing is that it’s a _stupid_ decision and you never should’ve been subjected to this in the first place and you’re not going through with it.” When he still doesn’t get a reaction out of being a little absolutist prick about things, Derek reverts to playing the would-be dictator: “I’m not _letting_ you go through with it, Cam.”

Now, that argument gives Cam pause. Not because it’s effective, but because this is a point that they shouldn’t need to cover anymore. Not when they’ve known each other since they were eight years old. Where Derek even got the idea that he can tell Cam what to do is so completely unfathomable… Trying to imagine this plan of Derek’s succeeding leaves Cam’s head swimming… He might be better off trying to imagine the Second Coming of Christ. At least the Second Coming, unlike Derek’s ludicrous plan to change anything about this piece of shit situation, _could_ come to fruition at some point.

He laughs as easily as breathing, and something to the tune of _you can’t tell me what to do with my life_ slips out of his mouth before he’s even aware enough to stop it. Briefly, the bitterness and venom underlying that statement surprises him… but then Derek’s still screwing up his face as if to say, _I’m allowed to tell you what to do with your life when you’re being a fucking **idiot** , Major Lahey_ — and well, if he wants to play at obstructing things and be pointlessly difficult and have one of his little tantrums to no real point or purpose, then far be it from Cam to stop him. All he can do is shrug and huff a bit at the presumption here, and hope that Derek catches on quickly enough to save himself from any further embarrassment. Not to mention saving _Cam_ the headache.

“That would almost be a touching display of devotion if you weren’t acting like a six-year-old who didn’t get a pony for Christmas,” he tells Derek with a huff and a shake of his head. “And you have about as much power to bring about any meaningful change in our situation as the six-year-old does, so. …But, hey. I guess you get to have the bragging rights about who turned out best after high school after all. It’s kind of a technicality, since I’m gonna be the whore who sold out our entire species, and everybody else is dead but Paige, and last we spoke, she was pretty miserable, stuck in revivalist witch hunts up to her fucking eyes and going into hiding in her parents’ basement so they wouldn’t get her or her girlfriend.”

Since he doesn’t have a drink on-hand, Cam just mimes toasting, shrugging and raising his hand, cupped around a pretend martini glass, and nodding in Derek’s direction. “So, here's to you: Derek Hale, the only person in the Beacon Hills High School class of ‘05 who isn’t a complete and total _loser_. Cheers. You’ve apparently earned it, or so I’d guess.”

And really, this should probably settle things, clean and pure and simple and resolved. This should put a stop to any further argument.

…except that _Derek Jeremiah Hale_ is involved, so of course it _doesn’t_. Hoping for that was probably a mistake on Cam’s part. He was probably asking far too much of Derek. Because why on Earth would Derek just let things be clean and pure and simple and resolved when he could keep wrecking up the place instead.

To his credit, at least he changes his attempted tactics somewhat. Calling them “tactics” implies a degree of consideration that Derek probably hasn’t earned, but the performance certainly deserves at least a polite golf-clap. So does the dedication that Derek puts into enacting it.

There’s a long, weary sigh as if to imply that Derek does such trying, difficult things in the name of always being right (even when he’s wrong). It could almost sound like, _“the things I do for love”_ but that wouldn’t make any sense. Neither would all of the attached implications. Still, the willingness to add these little nuances shows Derek’s commitment to whatever he thinks he’s doing right now. He throws in a roll of his eyes emphatic enough that, by all accounts, they should both dislodge themselves from his skull. And without asking if he can sit — because why would he even think of doing that, it’s probably too _human_ for him and not _werewolf_ enough — he flops down, sitting on Cam’s cot and too close to Cam for comfort. Derek practically tears himself out of his boots and socks, he gets them off so quickly, and then they end up discarded in a heap on the floor as though they never mattered.

Bare feet mean that he feels free to pull his legs up on the bed with him, but taking his leather jacket off is apparently not something Derek’s considering. Instead, he’d rather narrow his eyes at Cam, comb them all up and down him like a fucking full body scan, roving from the hair that got washed yesterday to the dirty clothes and lingering on Cam’s face. _Really_ lingering on Cam’s face. Locking his eyes on Cam’s like this is going to accomplish _anything_ aside from making _something_ well up in Cam’s throat and get stuck, making his heart drop into his roiling stomach, and making him squint back at Derek — _was that little bit of green in his eyes **always** so vibrant? or am I just imagining things?_

This all should build up to something huge, Cam is fairly certain, but after several minutes of the silence creeping up his spine, he only gets a single anticlimactic question out of Derek: “Why does being forced into prostitution make you a loser?”

“Well, I guess it doesn’t. It’s really more the part where I’m selling out our entire species and…” Cam huffs. Shrugs. Tries to smirk at Derek, but he can feel that the expression’s off-kilter. Something about it is just plain wrong. “What do you want me to say, Derek? Maybe that was in poor taste but… it was just a joke. Not a call for a fucking Federal investigation. It’s not like I’m being completely serious here or anything. As soon as I do that…”

_As soon as I do that, I’ll probably want to jump off a skyscraper and hope to God it kills me because there might not be a shred of hope left here for any of us?_

Cam shakes his head and drags a hand back through his hair. “…It’s just better not to take it seriously. Find the absurdity in the situation, laugh at it, refuse to let it get to you. Me. Everyone’s gotta do what’s necessary to survive, right. Odds are against us, living’s probably not in the cards… Survival’s a good bet. The best we’re going to get, anyway.”

“So, that’s what you’re going to do in Pennsylvania, or wherever Gerard lets you go? Survive? You’re going right into his seat of power, where he can do whatever he wants to you. You're taking nobody with you and it’s unlikely that you’d find a pack… and somehow, you’re just going to _survive_.”

“That is essentially the game-plan, yeah. Maybe I’ll get lucky and Gerard’ll find a client in New York who wants to fake like he’s my boyfriend, so he’ll wine me, dine me, take me to the theatre, and I’ll get to see Patti LuPone onstage again.” Cam tries not to drawl too much. He _tries_ not to slip into being _too_ condescending, especially not when he brings up Broadway, when seeing Patti as Mama Rose back in 2008 was one of the last things that Cam and Derek did together before everything went to fucking Hell. Cam does every ounce of his levelheaded best to keep things civil and decent between the two of them.

But frankly, Derek’s making Cam’s plan to behave himself more than a little bit difficult, what with all the incredulous looks and the way that _he’s_ borderline patronizing when he huffs, “And Scott’s letting all of this happen… _why_ , exactly?”

“If it makes you feel better, he really isn’t _letting_ it happen. Not as much as he’s being forced to go along with it. I mean, it wasn’t his choice, he fought hard against it, and he’s still pretty dead-set on trying to turn this into… something other than exactly what it is.” _As though you can make diamonds out of forced prostitution by calling it a reconnaissance mission_. “But almost everyone was on the fence initially, then they all got debating the details. And then they started concluding things based on the details… trying to determine which options had the most potential benefits or the most potential to end sort of well for us, and then…”

As much as he’d rather not make eye contact with Derek right now — it’s making his skin crawl in ways that Cam had forgotten it could crawl, and on top of that, it’s making him feel ill — there’s also no way around it. Derek needs to _completely_ understand it when Cam tells him: “After the Council talked it all over and analyzed the ever-living shit out of it, Scott, and Deaton, and Laura got out-voted. Everyone else thought it was our best option.”

“But Scott’s our _True Alpha_ —”

“Yeah. And he _got. out. **voted**_. Derek.” The hole in these jeans doesn’t need any more help in its slow disintegration process, but Cam helps it along anyway, glaring at his sharp, bony knee and pulling the threads. He hopes he ends up ruining the denim, opening it until his whole thigh shows through the hole.

“Anyway, it’s better me than anybody else: Lydia’s been through enough already — we all have but I’m pretty sure she gets a special mention here. Scott’s too soft, he won’t let this shit-hole Earth make him hard, and even if he _did_ , giving _him_ to Gerard is basically the worst idea _ever_. Breaking him means breaking the whole goddamn rebellion. But sure, there are others. Except that… oh, wait. Cora, Stiles, and Marco would get themselves killed by pissing off the wrong patron — plus, Emissaries are ultimately humans, so Stiles only has the supernatural appeal in that he was _temporarily_ possessed a few years back. He’s not as interesting as a _real_ supernatural, whatever that means. Then, Braeden wasn’t on the table since she’s still human, but _Kira_ could’ve been and if you don’t think Gerard would have her dolled up like a racist bullshit _me love you long time_ fantasy sex-doll in _ten seconds flat_ then I have _no idea_ what to tell you here—”

“What, and he’s _not_ going to make _you_ miserable somehow?”

“Of course he will! But it’s better _me_ than any of them, Derek,” Cam tells him again. It shouldn’t need repeating. Cam shouldn’t have needed to say it the first time.

“What about _me_?” Derek snaps, and for a moment, he looks legitimately affronted that he wasn’t considered as an option for the so-called job of _forced prostitute_. “Why does it have to be you getting sacrificed? You’re actually important. The Council had to know that… That’s probably why Gerard _wanted_ you.”

Or maybe he just objected to the idea of _Cam_ being shoved into said so-called job. It’s not clear to Cam which option is the worse one: the one where Derek romanticizes being Gerard’s glorified sex slave, or the one where Derek might actually care about Cam the way he used to do.

Pondering would take time that he doesn’t have, though, and mincing words would get them to a darker moment of the night. Cam doesn’t even try not to roll his eyes. He makes no attempt at stifling his chest-straining _sigh_ either.

“Yes, Derek. Because taking Kate’s number one _favorite_ victim and putting him right within _arm’s length of **Kate**_ sounds like a _completely_ flawless plan.”

“There are still options other than sending _you_ —”

“What _options_ are there, Derek? Please, share with the class on this because the rest of us didn’t see any.” _Especially since Gerard only wanted **me**. While we’re at it: **why** are you fighting this so hard? Just let it go already. Let **me** go already. This is getting ridiculous, even for you._ “I have the skills. I have the training—”

“Well, what if we need your skills and training here?”

“I can _handle_ whatever sick scheme that _monster_ has up his sleeves in ways the others _can’t._ Anyone can approximate the skills I bring to the table, but this emotional hardiness—”

“You know, you’re _really_ not as tough as you'd have people believe—”

“Besides, Derek, can you please tell me? Which is the bigger number here: eight or one.” Cam sighs. He shouldn’t need to say this part either, but since Derek just _has_ to be difficult, Cam guesses that he’s fresh out of options: “It’s better to give me over to Gerard than to let him keep _torturing_ Isaac or Erica, or Boyd, Malia—”

“Well, what if that _one_ could make all the difference to us?”

Vaguely, Cam wonders if Derek means to say, “to me” — that’s sure as Hell what it _sounds_ like he’s trying to say. But, on the other hand, that’s ridiculous.

Cam shakes himself out of it to argue back, “Well, what if we need another full canid-form shifter on-hand because we can’t make a plan work with just you and Laura? Scott’s working on it, but he isn’t there yet. Cora doesn’t even _want_ to go there. And Malia could do it but, oh! _She’s not **here**_. And you want me to just let that happen when I could do something to stop it? Stop being so _obtuse_.”

“Or you could keep _fighting_. Stay here and keep fighting Gerard. Keep fighting everything. There’s always another way out of a no-win scenario, if you look for it hard enough, right? Which means you don’t have to give up like this? And you could _stand and fight_. That’s what _Scott_ would do. That’s what _all of us_ should do. Even if we can’t all be Scott.”

“Sometimes, I don’t think that Scott can handle being Scott. Or anyway, he can’t handle who everybody _wants_ him to be. Which I for one empathize with immensely. Just… strike the _everybody_ and replace it with _my Dad_.”

There’s a pause — not terribly long, but definitely enough of one to make Cam start to flush and start picking at his jeans again. Maybe Derek’s taking a moment to remember that Scott’s great, but not everyone’s gone and appointed him to be their own personal Jesus. Maybe he’s considering definitions of _fighting_ and _giving up_ other than his own. Maybe he’s actually been listening to Cam all along, instead of just throwing out replies that sounded passable, but now his brain’s starting to lag and he has to mentally catch up with himself.

Or maybe he’s just getting ready to hit below the belt: “It’s what Kirk and Captain Sisko would do. And I’m pretty sure it’s what they’d tell _you_ to do. Don’t give Gerard the satisfaction of seeing you give up. Stay here, with us. Stay with your pack. Help us find another way to _stand and fight_.”

He says it all like it’s so simple and obvious, and Cam’s not sure if Derek needs his pity or a thwap on the back of the head by way of a reality check. He’s not even sure he could properly manage pity right now. Not so soon after Derek’s thrown those names out in his face. Not while his fidgeting gives way to trembling hands and a bobbing foot and flexing his fingers to keep himself from screaming or from throwing punches. He could try to keep himself _entirely_ composed, try to keep a civil tongue in his head like Dad always wanted him to do.

Like Dad always punished him for _not_ doing, despite how Cam only ever ran his mouth off to his old man for _Isaac’s_ sake.

But if Derek’s going to use Kirk and Sisko as talking points like he has the first idea what he’s talking about? If he is going to _dare_ to use the two of them against Cam like this, even though he’s only seen thirteen episodes of Star Trek, _maybe_ , in his entire life, and they were all from different series, _and_ he wanted to count “The Best of Both Worlds” as two separate episodes because it was a two-parter…

All bets are off, and they deserve to be, and something spills out, warm and twisting, writhing in the pit of Cam’s stomach as he ruffles up his own hair. It gets stronger as he stretches out one leg on the mattress and dangles the other over the side of the bed. Then stronger still when Derek hones his focus further in on Cam. By the time Cam’s leaning forward, it starts to burn like _wanting_ — but it’s probably just righteous indignation.

“Y’know, you’re probably right?” Cam acquiesces with a grim, breathy laugh. He lets himself smirk and doesn’t care how off-kilter it looks or doesn’t — looking facially broken could actually help him make his point. “But, see, for all Ben and Jim understand that it’s brave, sometimes, to stand and fight? They also see the point and purpose of another piece of wisdom…”

He crooks a finger, motioning for Derek to lean in closer to him. Just because it’s only fair, Cam scoots away from the wall and tilts toward Derek in return. For one flash of a second, it occurs to Cam that they’re getting within kissing distance, and Derek’s lips.

Too bad they can’t do that instead. Too bad they have to get this important bullshit handled first.

“What I think you’re missing here? Is that Jim and Ben know how to make _hard choices_ , Derek,” Cam says, looking him dead in the eye. “And what they understand that _you’re_ apparently missing? Is that the needs of the many out—”

“Finish that _Wrath of Khan_ line and I’m going to punch you in the throat.”

For the first time since he stormed in here, Derek’s face _darkens_. There’s no petulance to his expression, and there isn’t any room for screwing around. He _means_ this threat. He really, truly means it. And what’s more than that, Derek wants Cam to _know_ that he means it. And Cam should know more than better but he can’t help thinking, _Good_. It’s been too long since somebody actually made him feel any kind of physical hurt.

So, he snickers, and he grins at Derek, ready for that promise to get fulfilled. “Outweigh the needs of the few. Or the one.”

All Derek does is stare at him. Inscrutably, much to Cam’s annoyance. But maybe it’s the prelude to something.

So, Cam waits, and after a long moment, Derek still hasn’t punched him. “Oh, no, help,” he deadpans. “No. Derek. Stop. Please. Stop, Derek. This isn’t you, you have to fight it. Please, Derek, have mercy. Why would you even fight me like this, Derek. Please, I beg you, please. Don’t fuck up my pretty face for me before it’s gonna decide if I get to live or die. Please. Oh, no, please. I don’t—”

Cam doesn’t notice the hands balled up in his days’ old t-shirt until there’s a jerk around his chest and something smacking right into his mouth. Biting is his first instinct, and it’s only overpowered by the part where Camden Blake Lahey doesn’t let anybody else get the last word. Not since his Dad died. Not if he can help it. So, for the first few seconds of the kiss that Derek hauls him into, before he actually gets the message that they’re _kissing_ now instead of fighting? Cam keeps trying to egg him on. Keeps trying to move his mouth with the intent to spit out words. Keeps trying to snark Derek into doing something interesting, while completely failing to notice that he already has.

Mostly, this just keeps the kiss from going any kind of well. Mostly, it just makes a giant mess. Cam’s lips gnash while Derek’s try to twist. Derek’s stubble scrapes the undersides of Cam’s lips while Cam keeps accidentally catching Derek’s too hard between his teeth, and the two of them don’t manage to find a rhythm that’s any fun for either of them, much less one where they fit together. That doesn’t come to them until they take a beat to breathe, and until Cam finally gets it through his head: this private little conversation has, instead, become a _“conversation”_ in sarcastic quotation marks, because they’ve both hit the place where words just exhaust themselves and end up being meaningless, the place where there’s nothing that _talking_ could possibly say any better than just _doing_.

The worst part is, they both know that they could have done each other so much better. There’s so much more to say, but they don’t know how and even if they did, there’s no time left to say it.

As Cam snakes his hands up the beaten up leather of Derek’s _stupid_ old jacket, it occurs to him that they wouldn’t have had enough time for everything that they could say or do to each other, even if he’d gone to Derek as soon as Scott told him to do it. He grips on tight to Derek’s collar and anchors himself, for long enough to tug himself into Derek’s lap and get into a more stable position. Or at least one that only gets _un_ stable when Derek bucks his hips up against Cam’s ass. Once Cam’s gotten into a place he likes, he shoves off Derek’s jacket. Derek’s arms find their way around Cam’s waist while Cam puts his hands to work in peeling Derek out of his henley, and while Cam grinds down against Derek’s lap (against the feeling of Derek’s cock starting to strain against his jeans and insist upon itself), Derek growls, jostles him and knocks Cam deeper back into a kiss. And Cam returns it, sucking hard enough on Derek’s lip to get a whimper.

There’s never enough time, never even remotely enough. No matter what they do, no matter what they try. Never enough. Nothing is _ever_ going to be enough — but for now, they can make do with what they have left tonight.

***   *   *   *   *   *   *   ***

Cam doesn’t know when he falls asleep, just that, when he does, Derek’s pressed up against his back, not to close but close enough to kiss Cam’s nape, and he has his arm slung gently around Cam’s waist.

Cam has no idea what happens while he’s out, either — he doesn’t even remember his dreams. He just knows that when the sunrise starts filtering through the half-drawn shades, he’s rolled over and drawn himself in close to Derek’s chest. He wouldn’t say he’s _cleaving_ to Derek, exactly, but he’s pressed up against Derek’s side, with his nose in Derek’s collarbone and an arm draped over his stomach. Likewise, Derek’s grip on Cam’s waist seems tighter, like even when he’s dead asleep, Derek’s trying to prevent what they both know is coming from ever getting here. Like he doesn’t even need to be awake to beg Cam not to leave.

It’s sweet, in a very Derek sort of way. It’s reassuring. It’s something that no one else can take from Cam.

But it’s not going to bring Isaac and the others back where they belong. It’s not going to send Cam there in their collective place, as per the agreement with Gerard. He still has to wriggle out of Derek’s hold. Still has to go out to the showers because he can’t go to make this trade with stubble and the stink of sex lurking all around him (at least, when Cam gets back, Derek’s still in bed and faking very badly at being asleep). He still has to brush his teeth, now that he can, and put on something nice — or something not awful, anyway, since they don’t have much room to spare for _nice_ (Cam has no idea what Kate’s standards are for future rent boys, but he hopes that the cleanest jeans and shirt he owns will work). He still has double-check the backpack and duffel-bag of personal effects that he’s allowed to bring with him when Kate picks him up at the rendezvous point.

Derek gives up on faking it eventually, instead resigning himself to quiet observation. They don’t say anything, the whole time that Cam’s going over his last checks and making sure that he has everything. Sometimes, he’ll look up and catch Derek watching him and get the feeling like one of them should speak, but they never do. Neither of them says anything until Cam’s heading out the door to go meet Parrish, Braeden, Deaton, and Laura for the drive out to meet Kate.

And even then, the only words exchanged are Derek huffing, “Here. Take it with you. It was my Dad’s, it’s just… You should have it,” as he shoves that stupid leather jacket into Camden’s arms, and the quiet, “thank you” that follows. Then they meet each other’s eyes, and nod, and last night might as well have never happened, as far as anybody else might see. Derek sulks off toward the mess hall the same way that he normally would, and here they are, back to another period of not speaking to each other.

Except that, once he’s gone, Cam puts on the stubborn bastard’s jacket. It doesn’t fit quite right — even with shoulders that are nearly broad for his height, Cam’s all but drowning in the leather — but it’s cold this morning, and something about the leather and its lining smells like home.

**Author's Note:**

>  **1:** For this fic, I wound up trying to incorporate bits from all three of the prompts that I got from my giftee (kingderekshales @ tumblr), but the big ones that wound up getting emphasized in everything were, "dystopian apocalypse + protecting each other" (I'm so sorry if this wasn't the dystopia or vision of "protecting each other" that you had in mind, though? I'm sort of overly partial to the displays of protectiveness that mean a lot even if they're not immediately read as protectiveness??) and, "a found book that changes everything" (though in this case, the book is less found exactly and more, "given to Derek by Scott").
> 
>  **2:** The first big canon-divergence point of this AU/AR is basically, "after Visionary, Deucalion and the Alpha Pack didn't go Dark Side but instead worked on trying to strengthen the larger werewolf community." The second one is that, somewhere in here, the supernatural got outed to the general public and, thanks to several very well placed connections, the ability to manipulate terror and use it to command public support, and a lot of firepower, the Argents took advantage of extant civil and political unrest to stage a nice little coup.
> 
> Part of sad coup involved cracking down on and hyper-regulating all supernatural beings, and making everyone who didn't cooperate an outlaw and fair game to shoot on sight. Higher-ranking outlaws, like the Alphas and the Hales, are can even net you a reward. And so we find our ragtag group of rebels, out of the early days of this but before it's become what everyone's accustomed to, trying to overthrow the Argent regime (with Allison as their babe on the inside) before Gerard can get his hold on things solidified.
> 
>  **3:** …also, as a personal aside here, it's by no means necessary but it helps if you visualize [Sam Claflin](http://bisclavretlupinmccall.tumblr.com/tagged/Sam%20Claflin) (aka, Finnick Odair from the Hunger Games movies, among other roles) as Camden. This is entirely Astrid/warriorpoodle's fault because that fancast was her idea and I had no idea who Sam Claflin was before she suggested him. I'd definitely say this choice of fancast influenced this fic, albeit unintentionally and unconsciously, since… thanks to fancasting Sam Claflin as Cam, I've finally started getting into the THG media. So, I started writing the thing, then looked from what I was writing for Camden, over to Finnick Odair's backstory (as revealed in _Mockingjay_ ), and went, "…oh. … _oh_. :\"
> 
> So… that inspiration is definitely there. Again, unintentionally, and if I ever continued this, I'd envision things to go very, very differently for Cam than they did for Finnick, not least since they're living under different dystopian AU regimes. But all the same, this fic is published with so many apologies to Suzanne Collins.
> 
>  **4:** Finally, the fic's title comes from a line in Richard Siken's [Meet Me At the Page Where](http://sporkpress.com/3_2/Pieces/Siken.htm).


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